


To bestow a world and withhold a star

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [58]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action, Angst and Feels, Battle Couple, Canon-Typical Violence, Darkspawn, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Battle of Denerim, Established Relationship, F/M, Fight Scene, Love, The Taint (Dragon Age), Warden Powers, together at the end of all things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: On the top of Fort Drakon, Caitwyn Tabris and Alistair make their stand against the archdemon, neither knowing if they will survive.  But they will finish this fight as they began it: together.Note:This series is fully drafted with only two fics left to post.  Two weeks, and the last chapter of Caitwyn Tabris's story is fully posted.  It's been a wild ride, thank you to everyone who came along for it.  <3
Relationships: Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Morrigan & Female Warden
Series: Wed to Blight [58]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/879681
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	To bestow a world and withhold a star

Caitwyn’s ears rang, and she had to force her eyes open. Sticky blood ran down her face. Groaning, she got her hands underneath her, the stone slick with ichor and blood. She shook her head, trying to remember where she was. Fort Drakon, yes. At the top of the tower. They were above the smoke of the fires here, as Denerim burned below, but the heat of a Blighted summer permeated the air even up this high, muggy and clinging to her like a fetid swamp. The darkspawn dragged that corruption behind them, hemming her close with their violent, writhing presence on her skin.

“Cait, Cait.” Alistair’s voice broke through the ringing, and she remembered. She’d been thrown back by the force of the archdemon’s wings. He knelt beside her, shield up, eyes scanning the area around them. Blessedly, the darkspawn were engaged by their forces; dwarves held the line while the men of Redcliffe manned the ballistae. Behind the dwarves, the Dalish thinned the ranks of the darkspawn with deadly accuracy, while the mages spread themselves thin to keep people alive even as they sent fire and ice into the enemy ranks. 

It afforded them a pocket of stillness, and she shook her head to try to clear her mind.

“I’m alright,” she croaked, though she was the furthest thing from alright. She had watched her home turn to ash, fought darkspawn in the very streets where she had played as a child. But there was no time for that now. Wiping the blood from her eyes, she cast about for her bow. It had been in her hands, drawn back, ready to fire into the eye of the corrupted dragon. Then she saw it, only a few feet away, shattered. Her mouth opened to curse, but nothing came out.

The archdemon roared.

The corruption burst over like pus from a boil, drowning out her own thoughts, even as the deafening roar slammed into both her and Alistair. His shield could not protect them, though he raised it all the same, a wall of sound hammered at them both. But in the song was a desperate note, like a grasping claw of anguish and pain and terror raking down her face. The archdemon was weakening, and it cried out to the darkspawn to save it from its foes.

Caitwyn picked herself up, but kept her profile low, crouching next to Alistair as he stood as well. He glanced down at her, blood and worse smeared across his face, but there was a desperate question in his hazel eyes. Which of them would strike? Would they trust to Morrigan’s promise? Or had it all been a false hope?

Her hand curled around the hilt of her mother’s dagger, the last piece of Adaia Tabris left in this world. She met Alistair’s question with eyes as green as the heart of summer and an answer on her lips, “Together.”

“Together,” he echoed, and for a moment they looked at each other for what might be the last time they would see each other alive. 

Then Caitwyn shifted her feet, and Alistair squared his shoulders. They charged, Alistair quickly outpacing her only for a genlock to appear out of nowhere, going for his throat. He did not even slow down as he bashed its face with his shield and drew his sword across its torso, spilling its rotted innards onto the already black-slick stone. A flare burst in the corner of her vision, and there was an emissary preparing to cast, to hurl magic at her. But as quickly as it had appeared, Morrigan’s voice rang out through the air with an eldritch whisper under her words. The emissary dropped to its knees, screaming as if its heart had been ripped from its chest.

Caitwyn turned her attention back to the archdemon, then, and it had sensed them coming, possibly even sensed their intent through the dark bond they shared with its kind. It reared up, its long neck arching high above them. A ballista bolt struck it from the side with a heavy thud, making it swing its head toward the source of the offense. The archdemon breathed its black and purple fire, boiling men and elves and dwarves alive where they stood, the shrieks and screams filling Caitwyn’s ears. The sight of men melting into nothing would be with her forever, but if their sacrifice was to mean anything, anything at all, she could not stop.

Alistair reached the archdemon first, and then spun on his heel, crouching and bracing behind his shield which now faced her. Maker help her, what a risk that was, but she didn’t hesitate, her short but powerful legs picking up speed to gain all the momentum she could. Then she reached him, one foot gaining purchase on his shield, and he stood like a coiled spring, grunting with the effort of launching her as high into the air as possible, even as slight as she was.

She landed lightly on the back of the creature, but even that drew its attention. With a hiss, the archdemon snapped its neck around, its jaws open wide. Straight down that terrible throat was a dark, fiery pit, a portal to hell in and of itself, surrounded by blood stained, razor sharp teeth. Panic bubbled up in the back of her mind, but the weight of the dagger in her hand, her  _ mother’s _ dagger, kept her mind on the task in front of her. Spry as a cat, she ran along the back of the corrupted dragon, and stuck her dagger into its neck. Then she drew her other dagger, the one Alistair had given her, the dagger that had been Duncan’s, and she stabbed it into the foul flesh of the creature. Using the daggers like climbing picks, Caitwyn made for its head.

Below, she heard Alistair shout and felt him burn like a cleansing fire across her skin. His bellow and sun-bright light tore the archdemon’s attention away from shaking Caitwyn off, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Couldn’t know if he was drawing too much enemy attention. He always did that, always took too much on, and there was nothing she could do about it, not if they were to have a chance. As she gained the base of the dragon’s skull, she grit her teeth and sunk her daggers into its flesh, digging, rending, tearing, ichor soaking into her armor, bubbling up and burning across her skin.

With a shriek, the archdemon tried to shake her off again, but Caitwyn grimly hung on and kept to her grisly work. Finally, her mother’s dagger hit bone, and she found a notch where there was a gap between the spine and the skull. Caitwyn adjusted her hold, accounting for the blood-slick grip, and drove the dagger home, the runes flaring bright with a cold, silvery light.

Then the world turned white.

* * *

Alistair kept Caitwyn in view as she tumbled overhead, her small form cutting a graceful arc through the air to land like an acrobat on the archdemon’s back. He might have just launched her into her death, for all he knew, but it was better to be there, with only the dragon’s teeth to be worried about rather than the dragon and darkspawn. A mass of the twisted creatures ran for him, and he was caught between the archdemon and the horde, about to be swarmed under. 

Then a massive chunk of masonry barreled into the darkspawn, followed by a charging Shale, her form lit by the eerie glow of the crystals that were set into her body.

Shale’s intervention was blessedly timely, and he drew on the rot in his own blood, the stuff of the darkspawn themselves and  _ burned _ . Burned it like oil in a lamp and blazed. It drove them all mad, and he yelled at the damned thing for good measure, drawing the archdemon’s attention back to him, away from Cait. It snapped at him, teeth closing down just inches from his shield, and he brought the silverite shield down across its nose with a hard smack that sent a jarring tingle up his arm and into his shoulder. Paying the pain no mind, he brought his sword down on the dragon’s neck, cutting through flesh, releasing a gout of viscous, black blood. It roared in pain, its head rising up and giving him an opening.

Clenching his teeth against the bile that rose in his stomach at the stench, Alistair pressed his attack, stepping underneath the dragon’s chest to hack at its underbelly, to cut through the marginally softer scales there. Sword tearing chunks of flesh away, the runes etched into the blade glowed and burned, searing flesh and melting away the corruption that infested the dragon’s body. Unrelenting, Alistair kept up his butcher’s work, knowing where the heart of a dragon was now, cutting way the flesh between the pillar sized ribs to get within striking distance the rotted muscle that powered the beast.

Then he heard it, a low, thumping beat, just reaching his ears past the roar of the archdemon and the clamor of battle.

With a cry, Alistair plunged his sword into the creature’s heart, and white light filled his vision.

* * *

Caitwyn blinked, clearing her vision of afterimages, a searing picture of the archdemon’s skull, cut and torn open, the fire-stained sky, then stone, and the sensation of being  _ thrown _ . Rolling onto her side, she glanced around, seeing the darkspawn fleeing, the soldiers cutting them down as they ran. She heard cheers, ragged, mad, but victorious cheers, but she couldn’t join them. Not yet.

Lurching to her feet, daggers still somehow in her hands, she spun about trying to find him, to catch sight of his helm, of his shield, to see that familiar gait striding through the chaos for her. The bulk of the archdemon lay slumped on the far side of the tower, slowly bubbling into nothing, the corruption oozing out of it and staining the stones of Fort Drakon black. 

Her heart sat in her chest like lead when she saw no sign of him. Morrigan wouldn’t have lied to her. Morrigan wouldn’t have lied to her.

“Alistair,” she tried to call out but his name was unsteady as it left her. He had to be alive. Had to.  _ Morrigan wouldn’t have lied to her.  _ Tears traced down her face, leaving tracks in the blood and grime, and her breathing came in short, panicked gasps. A ragged plea dripped from her lips, “Please, oh, please.”

Her body trembled, a fearful cold sinking into her, but she filled her lungs with the fetid air and gathered her strength as best she could.

“ _ Alistair _ !” she screamed, raw and desperate into the smoky sky.

* * *

Alistair groaned, his head ringing like a bell. He tore off his helm, letting it fall to the ground with a dull, metallic thud, and he levered himself up, using his sword for balance. It was done, the archdemon dead in front of him, it’s massive, rotted body dissolving before his eyes. Slowly turning, he saw men and women celebrating already.

He did not see Caitwyn. His heart beat terror-fast as he cast about for any sight of her, her dark hair, her quick movement, but there was no sign of her. 

“Cait!” he called out, tears and fear lacing his voice, making it smaller. She could have been thrown in the fight. She could be lying somewhere, hurt, broken. Or she could be dead. Morrigan could have lied.

The thought burned across his mind, and he vowed to find the damned witch and run her through, to burn her, to tear her apart if Caitwyn was lost to him, if he had done the unthinkable only to have lost, to have lost—

“No,” he whispered, as if saying the word alone was enough to deny a world without her in it. “No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated as his voice broke like brittle glass, the jagged pieces tearing along his chest. He had to find her. She had to be whole and alive, and he wouldn’t trust it until she was in his arms. 

His mouth was bone dry, and licking his lips he grimaced at the taste of the blood and ichor on his face. But that didn’t matter. Drawing in a breath, he projected as best he could, and forced her name into the air, praying that she would answer, “ _ Caitwyn _ !”

* * *

“— _ wyn _ !” 

She heard, or she thought she heard a part of her name. From across the field of slaughter the sound caught her ear and dragged her head around. Scanning the top of the tower, her eyes darted about, but her legs were already carrying her toward the sound.

It had to be him. It had to be.

“Alistair!” she called out, hope building in her like water behind a dam.

* * *

“Alistair!”

It was her voice, the lilt of Denerim’s Alienage cutting through the shouts of victory and the gurgling remnants of darkspawn. Turning toward the sound, he ran to her voice, around the body of the archdemon, through the haze of smoke.

“Cait!” he yelled, heart rising like a star with a wild hope.

* * *

Then they saw each other, and time froze. For moment neither could move, eyes taking in every detail as if to confirm what they saw. His helm was gone, and his hair was the only part of him not covered in gore. For all that, he stood tall and solid, the realest thing in a mad world, and seeing her he smiled, that crooked, sweet smile that was home and safe harbor, shelter from the storm. Hood torn from her armor, her short curls were plastered to her face with black blood, and her daggers hung limply from her hands. But her eyes, those bright green eyes that called him on, eyes that held his heart and his future and all he had ever wanted in the world, shone for him.

She sucked in a hard breath, choking back tears, and a relieved sob broke from him.

They closed the distance between them, weapons dropping the ground with a sharp clang, and she flung her arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms around her waist, neither of them willing to let go. Not yet.

“Together,” he said thickly, resting his forehead against hers. 

“Together,” she affirmed, unable and unwilling to disguise the tremor of relief in her voice.

Soon the attention of the survivors of the Battle of Denerim would fall on them, and they would let their arms fall away from each other, acting as if they were nothing more than close friends. But for a single moment, shielded from sight by the remaining chaos at the top of Fort Drakon, Caitwyn and Alistair clung to each other, as close as their armor would allow.

They were together, had been together to the last and would remain that way, whatever came after.


End file.
